“It counts for everything with me—­and yet I have to ignore it.  But, after all,” he flung out, bitterly, “it’s the old story.  I claim the right to squeeze out of life such drops of happiness—­if you can call it happiness—­as men have left to me, and you deny it.  There it is in a nutshell.  Because other people have inflicted a great wrong on me, you insist that I shall inflict a greater one on myself.  And this time it wouldn’t be only on myself; it would be on poor little Evie.  There’s where it cuts.  No, no; I shall go on.  I’ve the right to do it.  You must stop me if you can.  If you don’t, or won’t—­why, then—­”

“I can stop you ... if you drive me to extremes ... but it wouldn’t be by doing ... any of the things you expect.”

It was because of the catch in her voice that he stopped in his walk, and confronted her.  In spite of the little tremor he could see in her no sign of yielding, and behind her veil he caught a gleam like that of anger.  It was at that minute, perhaps, that he became distinctly conscious for the first time of a doubt as to the superiority of “his type of girl.”  Notwithstanding the awakening of certain faint perceptions, he had hitherto denied within himself that there was anything higher or more lovely.  But in this girl’s unflinching loyalty, and in her tenacious clinging to what she considered right, he was getting a new glimpse of womanhood, which, however, in no way weakened his determination to resist her.

“As far as I see,” he said, after long hesitation, “you and I have two irreconcilable duties.  My duty is to marry Evie; yours is to prevent me.  In that case there’s nothing for either of us but to forge ahead, and see who wins.  If you win, I shall bear no malice; and I hope you’ll be equally generous if I do.”

“But I don’t want to win independently of you.  If I did, nothing could be easier.”

“Then why not do it?”

He tossed up his hand with one of his fatalistic Latin gestures, drawing the attention of the passers-by to the man and woman talking so earnestly.  For this reason, and because she was losing her self-command, she hastened to take leave of him.

Arrived at home, it gave her no comfort to find Charles Conquest—­the most spick and span of middle-aged New-Yorkers—­waiting in the drawing-room.

“I thought you might come in,” he explained, “so I stayed.  I have to get your signature to the papers about that property in Montreal.  I’ve fixed the thing up and we’ll sell.”

“You said you’d send the papers—­”

“That sounds as if you weren’t glad to see me,” he laughed, “but I’ll ignore the discourtesy.  Here,” he added, unfolding the documents, “you put your name there—­and there—­near the L.S.”

She carried the papers to her desk, and sat down to write.  Conquest took the liberty of old friendship to stroll about the room, with his hands behind him, humming a little tune.